Old Scar, Samurai
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Uncle Yao is a moody, brooding old man. His niece, Mei, knows that very well. Therefore she remains silent, never bringing up his past. Her waiting eventually pays off. A sentimental one-shot with a dash of cultural added in.


Little Mei-Mei never understood why there was a giant caterpillar on Uncle Yao's back. When she first saw it, hiding behind the sliding doors, she nearly gasped. Uncle Yao had his back facing her, disrobing and getting into his sleeping attire. His hair, inky black, poured down his evenly toned shoulders. There, from his right shoulder to his left hip, there was that ugly manifestation.

It was not until Mei-Mei had grown older that she realized it was not in fact a caterpillar but an ugly, knotted, stark-white scar that cut along his back. It had been deep when afflicted and now so many years had passed since then that the scar tissue had gathered and formed a mountain range across his back! Mei-Mei, helping her aging uncle, still beautiful as though youthful, into his daytime robes, regarded it carefully. She tried to keep her hands from brushing across the wound by mistake, though she doubted it hurt him. In fact, it was not at all for hurting him that she feared to make contact, but the fear of what she may feel. Once, on a summer evening, she accidentally did brush past. It felt dusty and dry.

Mei-Mei pretended not to have felt anything.

By that time Mei-Mei was hardly called Mei-Mei. Her name had been shortened to Mei. Her hair had grown long, flowing down her back or tied up. Sometimes she even entertained the Japanese split-peach style, but Uncle Yao always smacked her when she did.

"It's indecent!" he cried and turned away, his pale lips contorted in rage.

She nodded and undid it, pulling the red pin out and instead wrapped it in a simple bun with a flower ornament tucked beneath it. That Uncle Yao begrudgingly approved of.

Uncle Yao was a grouchy, hostile old man. He refused to form wrinkles, unless they were around his eyes, and to allow a single white hair to creep into his roots. His hair, with a natural sheen, remained smooth and long as ever. He tied it once at the neck and let it flow in its own course. When Mei washed it she was overcome by a sudden jealousy.

"Jealous of an old man's hair, really!" one of her friends, Lin, cried when she heard Mei's confession.

"You haven't felt it to know." Mei replied solemnly.

More often than not Mei wore a simple light pink robe. But her true preference was of a great kimono like the Geisha of Japan wore, or a Cheongsam of red with golden embroideries. The short sleeves and open front caused Uncle Yao to ban that article of clothing immediately. No matter how fond Mei was of beauty, she lived under the rule of Uncle Yao and his word was law.

Uncle Yao wore a simple silk robe, usually red or black. His daily routine consisted of waking, eating breakfast that Mei prepared, then sipping tea while reading, writing, painting, or strolling through the city. He had his meals and then, after a bath, returned to bed.

Mei tended to some of his needs, such as cooking and dressing him out of his robes since his insides did not match with his outer appearance. He was constantly weak, fatigued, or sore with no reasonable explanation. His bones constantly hurt so that he required to soak them in water treated with some sort of remedy, and to drink tea constantly made of special herbs.

He had an assortment of servants and a cook that helped Mei, or that Mei helped, in his household. He had been a general in the army and could afford such luxuries. Such pampering did nothing to lighten his mood.

One evening, as powdery snow slowly fell to earth, Uncle Yao called Mei to him. She rushed over, kneeling behind him.

"Yes, Uncle Yao?"

"Come, sit closer." He patted the floor beside him. She moved over and lightly sat a polite distance next to him, looking out into the world. Their garden was filled with snow, covering it like a blanket of the quilts from the West. The wicker cage used once for holding crickets was hung on a tree, now loaded with the white frozen water and weighed down by it. The flakes, no bigger than a moth's wing, continued to float down freely.

"It's very lovely." Mei murmured.

"Don't speak out of turn," Uncle Yao berated at once, but slowly the lines on his face softened. "Although I do agree that it is very lovely… Hand me my pipe."

Mei stood and went to fetch Uncle Yao's pipe, returning shortly. He took it, balancing like long item on his fingers, before lighting it and placing it between his lips. He rarely smoked, unless he wanted to ponder something. Mei prepared herself.

"Snow is very peculiar. You see it and it is as though it sucks all sound from the world. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, I do, Uncle." Mei replied. It was not out of politeness—she really did agree.

"A warrior could pass through the snow, hurtling like a drop of blood on white sheets, and still be mostly unnoticed. That would be a poetic thing, but an object as big as a warrior would be noticed no matter what. That is, unless he is trained. Now, how old are you? Is it sixteen?"

"No, Uncle, I'm eighteen now."

"Ah! It's about time you got married! What are you doing around here with an old man! You can have a young man with your beauty in a matter of moments, and yet you waste your time here."

Mei blushed. She had not expected to be called beautiful, especially by Uncle.

"Thank you, Uncle," she said at last.

"Yes, yes…" Uncle Yao puffed pensively at the pipe, smoke rising in swirling rings from his nose and lips. Finally he coughed once and ordered Mei to return to pipe. She did just so and returned to sit beside him. Her hair had been done up in a simple bun, tied with a floral string. She wore a simple robe of an unremarkable beige color, tied around her waist with a sort of sash that did not qualify as an _obi_ but was more or less her own creation. She placed her dainty hands on her lap, kneeling still politely.

Mei watched the snow for some time, her eyes flicking occasionally at Uncle Yao. He remained moodily silent, regarding the snow but not really seeing it.

Finally, he took a deep sigh, and said; "I am old man. I realize that sometimes I can be very harsh on you."

Mei did not speak up, even though his pause indicating that she should comment. She made a sort of sigh that notified him that she was listening.

"And I've been scarred brutally by my past. You must understand that I am harsh to you out of compassion. Your parents, well, I suppose they would have been either harsher or would have ignored your completely. I enjoy having a family around me. And it saddens me that you will eventually leave me alone. I'm not trying to force guilt on you, you have been too good to me, but I am only speaking honestly. Lying does not pay off well when you reach my aid."

He shifted, so that the hem of the robe at his neck shifted. It exposed the tip of the scar briefly, like a pointing finger.

"You've seen this scar before. Don't pretend that I don't know. I knew even when you hid behind those sliding doors, peering out as if no one can see you!" he gave a harsh, barking cough that sounded like a laugh, which it was. "And you're old enough now… ah… nineteen?"

"No, eighteen, uncle."

"Yes, yes, eighteen, I remember now. The distant past becomes clearer and the recent nothing but a dream! And, as I was saying, you're old enough now to know the story. This story has not graced the ears of a single person except for you. So listen closely. If you're wise you'll know that I will never repeat it. I feel that my time is coming. Consider my life is a lead. Autumn had encased me for a long time, changing me to purple and then to a sickly shade of brown. Winter is fast approaching and soon my stem will become too brittle and eventually I will snap off. I may fall on to the cold earth or maybe into a stream, floating down and greeting the eyes of some passerby. He may think about it, or he may not. That is his decision. Do you understand?"

"Oh, but Uncle means to tell me that the end of his life is fast approaching! I don't believe I can handle that, Uncle. I am very fond of you."

"That you may be," Uncle Yao's voice darkened, giving her the impression that she had said something very wrong. But his soft chuckle indicated otherwise. "I'm happy to know that floating leaf at least looked somewhat poetic to you."

He shifted again into a more comfortable sitting position, rubbing his sore legs.

"My story begins not with me, but with an entirely different person. The person I am speaking of is a boy I once cared for. At the time he was a man, of course, but to my eyes he will forever be a little boy. His name was Kiku Honda. He grew to be no taller than I am, with short black hair and a face round and very delicate to the touch. I recall, since I was very young at the time I took him in, that he hated to have his cheeks touched since they were so sensitive. But I am only telling you this so you have something to relate to when I tell you what happened to him in his future.

"He grew up with me until he was old enough to enlist into the same army I was already in. I was not yet a general, but I was fast becoming one. He was determined, a hard worker, and deserved the respect and honor he gained. He was relentless in his course. His eyes were set on the prize and he never faltered in his goal to secure it. As time went on he became a very noble Samurai: the very best of the best, if you will, for he cut enemies down by a single glare as legend says. His blade was never christened in blood, for his strikes were always clean and quick. I have a hard time believing any of this nonsense, as you can tell, but I suppose it's worth mentioning.

"All those below him aspired to become him, or something like him, as he seemed as unreachable as a deity. He could read more kanji than any other and his armor, heavily plated, seemed weightless even on his slender form.

"When I saw him last, his face had hardened with scars and darkness of war. He spoke in words I hardly understood, and granted I know Japanese fairly well. Sometimes even his logic seemed high above any normal mortal such as you or I.

"That final viewing was the time he cut me. I was accused wrongly of a crime… Ah, I remember it so well. I remember approaching him, ready to be executed, and I met his eyes. He must have recognized me. He made no impression however of have even noticed my presence. He said he would kill me for the crime I had not committed. The crime is too detailed to explain to you, even at your age, and perhaps one day it will become clear to you. If you research close enough you can't miss it. Regardless, everyone had been convinced that it was I who committed such high treason. Kiku must have convinced the others that he would be the one to slay me. Why he, of such high ranking, would trouble him with this must have troubled them.

"Kiku Honda approached me, raising his gleaming katana high. He met my eyes and seemed bent on whisking away my life. As it turned out, he had sealed a secret with me in the glance. That glance said that he was thanking me for his fortune in life, as he later told me shortly before his death—but that is another story completely.

"So he raised that sword. I can still see the sharp flash of metal and feel the string as it slashed my back. With his skill he did not cut deep enough to wound me but just so that it appeared he had given me my mortal wound. I fell down, howling in pain, to make the act seem more believable. Blood spilled from my back, gushing to the floor. Satisfied, the rest left. He remained behind and thanked me. He was assassinated that same night. I returned home, traveling with vagabonds, nursing my wound, and weeping shamelessly at my loss."

Uncle Yao cleared his throat and fell into a heavy silence. The silence seemed to drag Mei down into the earth. She lowered her gaze, spotting bits of green grass poking through the snow.

"Uncle, look!" She said, pointing at it.

Uncle Yao looked down at it, and smiled. "…when that leaf finally floats away, spring will come and another leaf will be born in its place."

And that was the last Mei ever heard from him, for he died peacefully in his sleep that same night.

Many years later, after Mei had married, she kneeled before the altar. There held the spirit of her ancestors, among of which was Uncle Yao, commemorated after his death with the proper funeral, and now still continuing his afterlife peacefully. Mei bent her head, her hair now lined with white and gray, wrinkles forming around her lips and nose. Her hands had aged as well, becoming wrinkled and spotted with age.

"… and, when my leaf will float away, it will be replaced by spring with a newborn one."

* * *

_I do not own Hetalia._

_The war I refer to, as well as the crime, is completely fictional. I may add more on the crime, since it is M rated material, in another story in the future. _

_The customs I give I hope are accurate. If not I am very sorry. _

_I hope you enjoyed. _


End file.
